“I watch what hovers like genie smoke – the grief –/near ancient tombs of white marble with grey veins,/or gravestones on a desert hill,/images that filter vaguely out of the words we use to mourn./Are you awake?”
“Small items, their lightness measured by just how many/you can lose and not notice. Imagine if we tucked/all the stinging things to our chests and rocked them quiet.”
